


Clockwork

by TheRavenintheMoon



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRavenintheMoon/pseuds/TheRavenintheMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor has a terrible nightmare. The question, of course, is just how much of that dream is real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Doctor Who, though I have taken the liberty of advancing him a regeneration and of giving one of my characters to him as a companion. Esther is entirely mine. The epigraph is from series 5, episode 4, "The Time of Angels."
> 
> I got the idea for this from a nightmare I had after reading Philip Pullman's fairy tale "Clockwork." It's a wonderful fairy tale, bordering on horror and yet oddly sweet at the end as all good fairy tales should be.

Clockwork

_“What if we had ideas that could think for themselves? What if one day our dreams no longer needed us?” –The Time of Angels_

 

He was a master of his craft. No one could parallel his expertise, his sense for invention, his attention to detail. He was a lonely man, and he wanted to help. That had been his life’s ambition. And yet, when it came right down to it, maybe what he really wanted was to prove that he was the best. That he was justified in locking himself away and devoting his whole life to his masterpiece. That he could do what no one else had ever done. And he wasn’t afraid to do what needed to be done in order to complete his invention and realize his dream.

∞

He was Eleven again, in tweed and a bow-tie. He was walking down a clinical, whitewashed hallway, and he was unaccountably nervous. He was probably in a hospital; things always went wrong when he found himself in hospital. Cat-nuns, for example, or Autons, or Judoon on the moon. He blinked, shaking out of the reverie. There was a metal door at the end of the hallway, and he was rapidly approaching it. Taking a deep breath, he decided that he did want to go through with this. Feigning bravery, he pushed the door open and stepped into the suite of rooms beyond.

He had expected a hospital ward, and was surprised to find himself in a dark-wood-paneled room dominated by a highly cluttered, solid-yet-ornate desk. Behind this desk sat the man he had come to see. The man lifted his heavy head and fixed dark, glittering eyes on the Doctor.

“What can I do for you?” the man asked in a dangerously deep, smooth voice.

The Doctor took a deep breath of somehow still hospital-stale air and blocked out the distraction of cataloguing the clutter on the desk—scattered papers and loose cogwheels, spilled ink and stacks of old books. Focusing, he met the other man’s lazy stare with an expression that was not quite inquisitive enough to hide the nervousness in his green eyes.

“I lost my second heart,” he said with no preamble, “and I was told that you could help.”

“Fascinating,” that smooth voice murmured. “The man is looking for a second heart.”

The Doctor was going to protest; he wasn’t a man and he _needed_ that heart, but movement on the desk caught his eye and he forgot what he was going to say. Instead, he stared in fascination at the quill writing by itself, recording what the man had said.

“Some sort of wires, I suppose?” the Doctor asked.

“Clockwork,” the man replied. “A pet hobby of mine. Would you care to examine?” He plucked the quill from its perfect balance mid-word, stilling its slight tick and the flow of ink, and held it out.

The Doctor took the offered quill, running a practiced eye and gentle fingers over it.

“Marvelous,” he said softly. He turned it over in his hands, watching the play of light on the thin metal, admiring how the pieces fit together in a perfect puzzle… “Quite a remarkable bit of craftsmanship.” He offered it back to its maker.

The man took it, turning it over and over in his long fingers. He was speaking, but the Doctor, quite against his will, was watching the metallic feather spin and could not hear a word. A reluctant “yes” was drawn from him, though he had no idea what he had just agreed to. He was beginning to think that it had been a bad decision to come here. On the other hand, he needed his second heart to live. He wasn’t the Doctor if he didn’t have that other heart. And he’d already agreed to the clockmaker’s proposed solution. No going back now.

He’d forgotten how much he hated that phrase.

With a snake-like smile, the other man said, “You have no need to worry. You won’t feel a thing…”

The Doctor realized he must have been thinking out loud again. He didn’t notice the slightly feral quality of the clockmaker’s smile, nor did he notice the faint glimmer of blood settled like the last remnant of ink on the sharp tip of the metal quill. There was a prick on his forefinger, already closing, that he hadn’t even felt. And, slowly, as the clockmaker set aside the quill and stood, the Doctor went numb, mentally and physically. He no longer felt the hospital chill of the room and his worry slipped away.

The Doctor followed the clockmaker through the door to his left. He did not, uncharacteristically, wonder what was through the door to his right. He was also, for the first time in a long time, completely silent and only vaguely interested in his surroundings and the other man and what was happening.

Under different circumstances, he would have been extremely delighted by the workroom behind the other door, the one to the right. It was an organized chaos of bits of clocks—springs, gears, wheels. Tools were scattered along a thick, practical workbench, and even more hung on the walls. But the Doctor was clever, and he would have noticed and questioned the lack of completed projects. There was nothing like the clockwork quill; there weren’t even any clocks, except for one simple, ugly thing bearing the mark of another maker that hung on the wall above the door and behind the back of anyone working at the bench.

The answer lay in the room the Doctor had just entered. This was not a hospital ward either—it was more like a cross between a lab and an operating room. Dulled green eyes unquestioningly took in the whitewashed walls, the fully-stocked shelves, and the metal lab tables. The shelves were lined with clockwork, all exquisitely shaped like body parts. There were arms, legs, eyes, lungs, hearts… If the parts all worked, and somehow the Doctor was sure they did, prosthetics and donated organs would never be needed again. But he had no idea how the parts _could_ work.

About to ask, he was distracted by a piece of clockwork squatting in the center of one of the tables. A coral-like exterior lay next to it. The other man saw the Doctor’s gaze shift towards it. The nasty grin curved his mouth again.

“My most important research, Doctor. It’s not yet complete, I’m afraid.”

“What is it?” the Doctor asked thickly through the numbness in his brain.

The man leaned towards him, staring straight into the Doctor’s eyes. “A clockwork mind,” he said softly.

The Doctor recoiled slightly, and his eyes fell on a tarp covering a long lump on the shadowy far table.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the clockmaker said. “That will one day be my masterpiece.”

“Masterpiece?” the Doctor echoed, calming, numbing again under the clockmaker’s hypnotic stare.

“Yes,” he said. “It will be a revolution.” His voice was a manic whisper. But the Doctor didn’t respond, which seemed to please the man. The clockmaker straightened, turning briskly and gesturing to the nearest table. “Now,” he said, smooth voice suddenly crisp, “let’s take care of that heart for you.”

Once again fully benumbed, the Doctor dutifully sat on the cold metal lab table. The clockmaker checked his pulse, then carefully shined a penlight at the Doctor’s eyes. He got no real response.

Humming to himself, he slung the Doctor’s jacket on the table next to the clockwork mind. The Doctor himself, under the clockmaker’s influence, rolled his bow-tie into his pocket and opened his shirt before settling back against the table. He hardly felt the cold.

There was a mirror above the table, stuck to the ceiling so that the Doctor could see himself, as well as the clockmaker’s back as he bent to collect a tray of tools. The Doctor turned his head to follow the man as he selected a clockwork heart from the shelves.

Completely disinterestedly, the Doctor, via the mirror, watched as the clockmaker carefully slit his chest open. Just as the Doctor had feared, there was only one heart. But there was no need to fear. The clockmaker could give him a second heart. There was no need to worry…

The removal of a heart is a delicate process, but one the clockmaker excelled at. Slowly, carefully, he snipped at one connection, clipped another, and so on until he could, without effort, lift the Doctor’s single heart from his chest. Throughout all this, there was no blood.

It was only as the Doctor saw his own heart, still beating, lying on a tray that he realized anything was wrong. But before he could protest, the clockmaker lowered his clockwork mechanism into place. It settled in quite nicely, as if it had been made for the Doctor, and it was only a short time later that it was connected. The tick of it was loud in the silence.

Rather appalled at the apparent misunderstanding, the Doctor said thickly, “I don’t think you understood. I’m supposed to have _two_ hearts.”

The clockmaker blinked, only pausing a moment as he stitched the bloodless wound closed. “A pity. You should have said right away.”

“But I _said_ —” the Doctor began to protest.

“That you had lost your second heart,” the clockmaker interjected smoothly. “You did not contradict me when I said that you were looking for _another_ heart. You never specified that you had two to begin with.” Carefully, he snipped the last of the thread, inspecting the row of stitches with a critical eye. “I gave you a replacement heart—a second heart. I misunderstood nothing.” He smiled thinly.

The Doctor lay on the cold table, numb with shock. Apparently satisfied with his work, the clockmaker began to clean up, humming to himself.

The silence, heavy with the ticking heart, was broken by a scream.

“Let me go! I need to find the Doctor. I said, Let. Me. Go!”

The Doctor closed his eyes. He knew that voice, but he couldn’t place it.

“A friend of yours, I presume?” the clockmaker asked.

Before the Doctor could answer, the shout rang out again. “Doctor!” It was much closer.

A moment later, the door banged open. A young woman, whose main features seemed to be thin yet curly blond hair and crystal blue eyes, was pulled into the room by two chalk-white, ticking robots. The Doctor knew he should recognize her, but he didn’t.

“What have I told you about interrupting?” the clockmaker asked his creations.

“She insisted. Also, she ticks,” one of the robots replied.

“Excuse me? I do not—” Then she saw the Doctor. “Oh my—Doctor, what—?” 

“Be quiet,” the clockmaker hissed, holding up a hand. Then his eyes widened. He walked over to her. “I thought it was just a watch, these guards aren’t the most reliable, but no. It’s bigger than that. May I?”

“No, you may not!” she said indignantly, but the clockmaker caught hold of her wrist and met her gaze.

Softly, he said, “Please. Let me help you…” Her will began to slip away.

“No!” the Doctor gasped, struggling to get up. He couldn’t remember who she was; even so, for some reason, he felt that she was important. But between the lingering drug in his system and the hypnosis, he was too weak to sit up. Also, the clockwork heart didn’t seem to respond to his urgency. It ticked on, steady, oblivious.

The young woman refused to succumb to the clockmaker’s hypnosis, fighting to break free of his gaze and his hold. Somehow, the Doctor had known she wouldn’t fall under the spell so easily.

Angrily, the clockmaker ordered the two robots to hold her. Once they had hold of her arms and she was more or less still, he carefully slit through clothing and skin to reveal a clockwork heart. This time the Doctor wondered why there was no blood.

Eyes wide, she cried, “Doctor! Doctor—please—”

The clockmaker chuckled darkly. “The reverse problem. Aren’t we lucky we have a spare.” He turned back and picked up the Doctor’s discarded heart. He smiled, prepared to perform another swap.

“Oh, come on. Please Doctor. Wake up, Doctor!” she yelled, struggling furiously.

The clockmaker was inches away from placing the still beating heart in her chest when the Doctor realized what he had just heard, and his eyes snapped open.

“Doctor!”

He blinked, groggily shaking his head. He was in the clockmaker’s lab, but it was apparent that he had not come voluntarily. He was fully clothed, in a tie, sweater, and jacket, and he was strapped to the table at his wrists and ankles. The mirror above him came into focus, and he realized with relief that his now-familiar twelfth face was staring worriedly back at him. Turning his head, he saw Esther, the young woman from the dream and his current companion, was strapped to the table next to him in the same manner. She stopped shouting when she saw him looking at her. Deep green eyes met blue. Her hair was in her face. It took him a moment to realize that his own dark hair had flopped into his eyes as well.

She sighed in relief. “You’re awake.”

“How long have I been out?” he asked.

“I don’t know. You were already here when they caught me,” she said. “Do you know, I think the nurses run on clockwork.”

The Doctor craned his neck to look at the far table. The canvas-covered lump was still there, just as he’d dreamed it. The so-called clockwork ‘mind,’ now covered in its outer shell, was on the table as well. “A revolution,” the clockmaker had said. Just how much of the dream had been real?

Calming himself with a few deep breaths, he was reassured by the double beat of his hearts. He glanced at Esther again. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said recalling her comment. “Can you get loose?”

“I don’t think so,” she said, trying to pull her hands free.

“No worries. I think I can just about…manage…” With a grimace, he worked his hands free and flung himself to a sitting position, legs still straight out in front of him.

“Oh,” he groaned, dropping his spinning head into his hands for a moment before pulling the straps from his ankles and standing. He swayed.

“Are you all right?” Esther asked.

“Of course,” he replied with a tight smile. He crossed to her, steadying himself on the table, and then freed her.

Just as she stood up, the clockmaker flung open the door. “Ah. I see you are awake.” The man was less impressive in real life than he had been in the dream. The gleam in his eyes was more madness than malice, and he was only just taller than the Doctor.

Esther sighed. “Why do they always state the obvious?” she asked.

The Doctor grinned. “Because it’s a part of the evil genius code. It’s bad etiquette to immediately call the guards again. Makes you look inept.” He added the last in a loud, conspiratorial whisper.

The clockmaker scowled. “Did you enjoy your dream, Doctor?”

The Doctor’s smile was suddenly entirely mirthless. The expression looked forced, and rather painful. “Mm.” He raised his eyebrows in a sarcastic agreement. “Fascinating. It’s been a while since I’ve been caught like that. Congratulations.”

“I did not catch you. You came to me,” the clockmaker said.

“Technically,” the Doctor said. “I was only passing through, happened to notice some anomalies, thought I’d look into it. Good thing I did, too. Could you imagine what people would do for a robot that doesn’t malfunction nearly as often, and can tell time?”

“I’m not selling,” the clockmaker said quietly.

“Humans will always find a way to reverse engineer the technology they get their hands on,” the Doctor said.

“But don’t you see? I won’t be selling robots. They’ll be able to work without programming. They’re not computers,” the clockmaker insisted.

“It will never work. The most you could get to work is a transplant, and, soon enough, people will be nothing but clockwork…unthinking clockwork, ticking away…” The Doctor shivered. Esther frowned.

“I don’t understand,” she said quietly. “I don’t think the nurses explained this part.”

The Doctor turned to her. “If I remember correctly, he’s trying to create a clock that thinks for itself.”

“I _have_ created such a mind, Doctor. Your dream was not a dream, as such,” the clockmaker said coldly.

“Well, it got away from you a bit. I mean, really, swappable hearts? That’s the stuff of nightmares,” the Doctor pointed out in his most reasonable tone.

Esther’s jaw dropped. “Swappable what?”

But the Doctor and the clockmaker were staring at each other, and didn’t hear.

“You came here for my help, Doctor. You needed me,” the clockmaker said. “With everything you’ve lost, well, of course you’d want to start over. I can offer that. To everyone who needs a new life.”

“No,” the Doctor said. “No, I stepped out of the TARDIS, thought that I really should set the controls so I never, ever end up in a hospital again, and then decided to explore. Your guards caught me. They really are remarkably efficient robots.” His smile was more genuine now. “You really are a true craftsman. It’s just—”

“No. Why don’t you remember? You needed—”

“Nothing. I—oh.” The Doctor sighed.

“What?” Esther asked. The Doctor looked at her, eyes wide.

“He actually believes the story the dream spun for me. He dreamed it as much as I did.”

“What dream?” Esther looked worried.

“It’s nothing. The reason I was unconscious for so long. He wanted me to understand his rationalization of this clockwork mind of his,” the Doctor told her.

“Oh,” she said, glancing back at the clockmaker. The man scowled again.

“You will see my side of this, Doctor.”

The Doctor shook his head. “A clockwork mind? A body that thinks, feels, and ticks for itself? It’ll never catch on.” He began to edge around the table towards the mechanism in question.

“But even the idea of it already has,” the clockmaker said with pride.

“The idea, yes. In theory, it’s a dream many have had—to be able to hold their life in a machine. Someone thought the Cybermen were a good idea, too, you know.” The Doctor sniffed in disgust. “And we all know how that turned out.”

“But this is different,” the clockmaker said indignantly. “The clockwork—I know it can feel,” he insisted.

“How?” the Doctor asked. “You cannot program emotion, even if you can program something to run off clockwork and think with software. It cannot function as a living creature. That’s why artificial intelligence is _artificial_. A machine has no concept of love or happiness or anger or…or tragedy—”

“This isn’t a machine,” the clockmaker argued. “After all the work I’ve put into it, I swear it has a life of its own.”

“It cannot—”

But before the Doctor could do anything, the clockmaker lunged forward, snatched the mechanism from the table, and pulled back the canvas to reveal a clockwork man. The clockmaker nestled the brain in its place and closed the head. A moment later, the blue lights of its eyes blinked on.

The thing was quite beautiful. Some sort of metal with a pale luster had been used to create a skin over light, finely-crafted metal bones. Clockwork mechanisms powered the movement of the joints, the appearance of lungs breathing, of a heart beating… Fine wires curled around the head in a halo of hair. The lips had been colored, somehow, and were parted in the illusion of breathing. The eyes, bright blue lights nearly the same color as Esther’s living eyes, blinked at the room disinterestedly. Esther shivered. Those eyes could see, but they didn’t really seem to be _seeing_ anything. The thing did not react to its creator, standing expectantly in front of it.

“Oh, no,” the Doctor sighed.

“What is it, Doctor?” Esther asked.

“You can create a clockwork mechanism to control heartbeats, breathing, eyesight…a mechanism that gives programmed responses to pre-set orders, and moves the other clockwork that acts as muscles and joints. But no mechanism in the world can think for itself, or feel. It’s just a thing. He thinks that he’s a god, creating a mind, a—a soul. But all he’s created is a _brain_.”

“Oh,” Esther said quietly. “Is that why they all seem so empty?”

The Doctor nodded. “The others must be proto-types. Experiments that have been conventionally programmed as robots. This, well, he doesn’t seem to have programmed anything at all… Not as far as I can tell.”

The clockmaker was paying them no attention. He was staring intently at his creation, waiting for something to happen.

“Well?” he said finally, frustrated. “Why don’t you stand up?”

It did.

“What are you waiting for? Do something. _Say_ something!”

But nothing happened.

Suddenly furious, the clockmaker rounded on the Doctor. “You did something!” he shrieked.

“No,” the Doctor said quietly. “I told you—”

“You did. You’ve ruined it. You must have,” the clockmaker insisted. “Guards! Guards!”

The robots burst into the room. “Seize him!”

They moved rapidly towards the Doctor, who ignored them. He closed his eyes, slipped the sonic screwdriver from his pocket, and pointed it at the clockwork ‘revolution.’

It burst into pieces.

“No! No! Guards! The pieces! My masterpiece…”

“Run,” the Doctor murmured, and he and Esther fled, trying to ignore the clockmaker’s wailing behind them.

Once they were back in the TARDIS and well away, Esther turned to the Doctor. “Did you have to do it?”

“Yes,” was the short reply.

“Why? It didn’t do anything. It seemed harmless enough.”

The Doctor sighed. “It _was_ dangerous. He’d programmed the other robots—the guards, the nurses… Even if his masterpiece was a failure initially, he could have adapted it. Oh, it would never do what he wanted it to, but it could have been another guard, or a soldier, or worse.”

“What could be worse?” Esther asked, imagining a soldier with those blank lights for eyes and shuddering.

“Someone else finding that technology after he'd discarded it for his next idea. It could be used for transplants that never wear out. Like, say, cyborgs, only less clumsy, easier to fit, easier to maintain. Clockwork winds down, you clean it, get a new spring, and there you are. Unlimited power. For a prosthetic limb, or a heart transplant, a lung transplant, or…” The Doctor stopped. Remembering what he’d said earlier, she gasped.

“Or a brain transplant? Surely no one would go that far?”

“No feelings, no memory. Just a body that kept on ticking away…” The Doctor shook himself, and looked at her. “Worse has been attempted in the name of science.”

Esther looked away, afraid to ask what was worse. The look on her face made him remember his dream. Quickly, he crossed to her side and hugged her. A reassuringly human heart beat just a little bit quicker at his unexpected touch.

“Are you all right, Doctor?” she asked again, worried by his unusual display of affection.

“Hm?” he murmured, releasing her. “Oh, I’m fine.”

She looked at him suspiciously for a moment. “Sure,” she said finally. He thought he detected a bit of sarcasm in that one word, but they both ignored it. Then she smiled. “You know what? I’m sick of running. How about a nice, quiet afternoon at the British Museum? Nothing could possibly go wrong there…”

The Doctor grinned, pushed his hair out of his eyes, and set the coordinates to random, looking for an adventure. But that was definitely something he was not going to tell Esther until after they had gone out and were safely back in the TARDIS, once again flying for the stars.


End file.
